You know they think you’re stupid. Even if you don’t see the blatant stare in their eyes it’s the tone in the answer that gives it away. As you walk away you imagine then speaking to others about how stupid you are. It’s a new record of thickness, thicker than ten slabs of butter piled high. You don’t know if it’s the anxiety cooking up these thoughts. Maybe it’s simply the rational part of you. It could be. I mean, at this point you feel beyond stupid. A need to know how to do something right or simply know why has you crying and crying as you slam your hands against the steering wheel and (once again) come to the conclusion everything wrong with your life comes straight from you. The fact that you’re working in a supermarket and being thrown back compliments like they’re dirty rags in the so called best years of your life is your doing. It’s more than your doing: it’s your fault. Look at all your friends who have succeeded in one way or another and now look at yourself. It’s difficult to stop crying but eventually you do it. You do, after all, live with your parent. After long hours of depressing rage you sleep. Though the pain goes away the fact remains: you’re stupid and everyone knows it.

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